A Wee Bit More Than a Drabble
by Riathe Mai
Summary: A collection of Wee!chester stories of varying lengths, inspired by the E/O Drabble Challenge WOW.
1. When The Pilot Goes Away

**A Wee Bit More Than a Drabble: **

**AN1: **Well, once again, an idea I had for the E/O Drabble Challenge WOW prompted a story that needed more than 100 words. Oddly enough, it was another Wee!chester. What can I say? With the holidays approaching, I'm heading into my dark phase and I need something light-hearted and sweet. I decided I would start a compilation of sorts of WOW-inspired Wee!chester stories or varying lengths, and what better word to start this new series with than 'Pilot'.

**Disclaimer: **I don't own them, though I sure wish I did.

-SPN-

**Chapter One:** When the Pilot Goes Away

**Chapter AN:** The idea for this story was born of how down-right chilly it's been in my house at night, lately. But this is October in New England, dammit; and if it ain't snowing, icing, or sub-freezing out, I ain't turning on my heat until November. Nope! No way. That's what fleece socks and flannel sheets are for. :-)

**AN2:** Thanks to Kailene, of course. Not a thought goes through my head that I don't share it with her. Thank goodness for unlimited texting, or I would be broke. All mistakes are mine because I can never just leave things alone.

**Setting / Spoilers / Warnings: **Pre-series Wee!chester. Dean is 7 and Sam is 3.

Awesome/BigBrotherDean, Sweet/ToddlerSam, Awesome/DaddyJohn

-SPN-

"Dad?"

That quiet, too-serious voice tore John out of a dead sleep. He rolled over, his eyes taking in the glowing numbers on the alarm clock on the night stand—2:47 AM—as they continued towards the source of the voice.

"Dean?"

The boy stood in the doorway, looking miserable and apologetic in equal measure. Sammy stood beside him, the fingers of one chubby hand clutching the hem of Dean's tee shirt and the thumb of the other hand crammed in his mouth.

John pushed himself up onto one elbow and ran his hand over his face. "What's the matter?"

"It's out again?" Dean answered solemnly.

John didn't need to ask for clarification. There was really only one thing Dean could be talking about.

They'd been in the little, one-bedroom apartment for a month. It wasn't the worst place they'd stayed in, by far, but it wasn't one of the better ones, either. The place was drafty, the windows and doors in need of weather stripping and the walls and floors, insulation. There was adequate hot water for his needs, so long as one didn't flush a toilet while another was in the shower, but the water pressure was terrible. Half the outlets in the place didn't work, and the few that did had to be used sparingly so as not to blow a fuse.

But, the rent had included utilities—water, heat, and electricity, a rarity to John's experience—and yet had still fallen within John's dwindling budget.

What had sold John on the place was the small, windowless room just beyond the bedroom. It was a perfect second bedroom for his sons; safe and secure with the only access to them being through him. For that added security, he'd figured he could overlook the rest of it.

He was questioning that reasoning, now.

In the last week alone, the pilot light had gone out in the small gas furnace three times, turning the apartment into an icebox.

Make that four times, now.

The cold didn't bother John all that much. The same could not be said for his boys, though; especially Sammy, who at only three seemed susceptible to colds and fevers at the drop of a hat.

He pushed himself upright in the bed and beckoned his sons closer. Now that he was awake, he could feel the chill in the air against his bare arms. It was no wonder his boys were looking so unhappy.

"'m _cowd_, Daddy," Sammy said around the thumb in his mouth. His eyes looked huge and liquid in the faint light from the alarm clock.

"I know, Tiger," John agreed. He reached out his hands, offering Sammy the choice between climbing up onto the bed and being lifted. His younger son was starting to show a little stubborn streak already, and it wasn't always clear when he wanted help or wanted to do something himself.

Funny, how he never seemed quite so resistant when it was Dean offering the help.

There was no resistance, this time. Sammy popped his thumb out if his mouth with an audible smack, and reached up to be lifted.

"What are you wearing?" John asked as he hoisted Sammy up and settled him on his lap. It looked like one of Dean's sweatshirts. The sleeves had been rolled up several times, forming a thick ring at Sammy's wrists, and the stretched-out bottom hem came to his knees.

"Sorry, Dad," Dean answered. "I thought it would help. I even put extra socks on his feet, but..." His voice drifted off and he shrugged.

"'s _weaw-wy cowd_," Sammy told him. As if to prove his point, he laid his little hand on John's bare arm.

His fingers were like ice.

"I know you have to be up early for work," Dean continued, the distress clear in his voice: distress that he hadn't come up with a way to keep Sammy warm and therefore in his bed so John could sleep without interruption.

John suppressed a sigh. It shouldn't fall on the seven-year-old to know what to do in such situations; and yet, more times than not John found himself relying on Dean to see to Sammy's needs so John could focus on other things. It was just plain wrong, but John didn't have the first clue how to break that habit.

And then he didn't know if he should even try. "Not your fault, Sport. You did real good," he said, and that distressed look faded from Dean's face.

John reached out and coaxed Dean up on the bed beside him. The boy had sacrificed his only hoodless sweatshirt to his brother, leaving him with nothing but his long-sleeved pajamas. His body felt colder to John than Sammy's did.

John pulled the bedding aside. Dean squirmed under them, then pulled Sammy down beside him, tucking his little body against his own.

"We can sweep here 'til the piwot comes back?" Sammy asked.

"The what?" John asked.

"He thinks the pilot in the furnace is a person," Dean explained affectionately. "Like what flies a plane, or something."

John laughed, settling back down into the mattress and pulling the bedding up around the three of them.

"Yeah, Sammy," he said. "You can sleep here until the pilot comes back."

He felt a little hand close around his tee shirt, and heard the familiar sound of a thumb in the mouth. That was probably another habit he should be working on breaking, but there was something rather soothing about the sound. It meant that his boys were near and that they were safe; warm and as protected as John could keep them.

He would have liked to enjoy that feeling a while longer, but sleep pulled at him. He was right on that edge, when...

"Daddy?" Sammy whispered around his thumb.

"Hmmm?"

"I wikes it when da piwot goes away."

John felt his eyes sting, a bit. "Me, too, Tiger. Me, too."


	2. Trying Not To Laugh

**Chapter Two:** Trying Not to Laugh

**AN1:** This installment is brought to you, today, by the EO Challenge WOW: Clip.

**AN2:** Kailene wanted me to write a Sammy-gets-his-first-haircut story, but I told her nuh-uh, no way, ain't gonna happen. I love you, but Sammy's hair is off limits. :-)

**AN3: **Thanks to everyone who responded, favorited, and alerted this story. I really appreciate it the support. A special thanks to my new beta-reader, OtherPromise13. Any remaining errors are totally my fault because I can't leave anything alone.

**Setting / Spoilers / Warnings: **Pre-series Wee!chester. Sam is 4 and Dean is 8. And John is no exception. ;-)

~~~~~~~~~~~SPN~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"Dean!"

It was something that every parent had to face. No matter how strict or serious you tried to tell yourself you were, how in control and unflappable you tried to convince _them_ you were; there was going to come a time when your child was going to do something so unexpected and so innocently inappropriate that instead of giving them the stern dressing down you knew you were supposed to give them, it was going to be all you could do just to keep a straight face.

John Winchester wasn't just any parent; but in this, he might as well have been.

"Yeah, Dad?"

John bit the inside of his cheek. Hard. It helped somewhat, so when he turned to face his older son standing so innocently in the bedroom doorway, his face was properly composed.

"What..." He had to clear his throat to get the right tone of voice. "What...is...that?"

Dean's brows dipped low over his green eyes. He looked past John, leaning slightly to the side so he could see the wall at which John was pointing. John couldn't bring himself to look at it again. If he did, he knew he was going to lose it for sure.

"Oh, crap," Dean uttered at the sight, his eyes shooting back to John's with probably a little more horror than the sight should have warranted. That proved more effective at helping John regain his composure than biting his cheek.

"He was watching you clip those articles and pictures outta the paper for a week," Dean explained hastily. "He must'a snuck in here when I was in the bathroom, or something. I swear; I didn't show 'em to him."

"I know, Dean," John assured. "Sammy is getting curious." And clever, apparently, though John kept that to himself. "Looks like we're both going to have to be more careful about watching what he's up to, huh?"

"You're not mad?" Dean asked.

Seriously, how could he be? He looked back at the wall, on which he'd meticulously tacked articles and pictures of the unusual sightings reported in the local rag-mag; and immediately, he felt the same surge of emotion well up inside of him.

An overwhelming urge to laugh.

Over every single blurry and questionably-authentic photo of the large, bi-pedal creature plaguing the local state forests, Sammy had stuck sloppily-cut-out images of bunny and kitten heads. Some he'd drawn and some he'd clipped from magazines or from his coloring books, and all he'd positioned in such a way as to appeal to his own four-year-old sense of artistic style.

John shook his head and gave in to his humor. "No, Sport. I'm not mad."


	3. Eating Adorable Children is Frowned Upon

**Chapter Three:** Eating Adorable Children is Generally Frowned Upon

**AN1:** This is also brought to you by the EO Challenge WOW: Clip.

**AN2:** This came about after a brief exchange between a reviewer and me. Thanks eza. xo! I told you it was a story prompt if I'd ever heard one. I can't believe how quickly this fell into place. I hope you like it. ;-)

**AN3: **Thanks Kailene, for dropping everything to read it over—errors and all, and there were a bunch of them. That's what I get for typing out the rough draft on my phone—well that and carpal tunnel and serious eye strain. Thanks OtherPromise13 for the lightning-fast beta. All errors are mine.

**Setting / Spoilers / Warnings: **Pre-series Wee!chester. Sam is 14 months and Dean is 5-1/2. CuteBaby!Sam, AwesomeBigBrother!Dean, Daddy!John. No warnings except for gratuitous sweetness and family shmoop.

~~~~~~~~~~~SPN~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"Daddy."

John couldn't help the smile that pulled his lips, no matter how many times he heard the word.

"Daddydaddydaddydaddy."

Even then. He had to wonder if it would ever get old. Sammy had finally said the word for the first time just the day before. He'd been saying 'Dean' for weeks, it seemed; but not 'Daddy'. Not even 'Dada', although he did laugh every time he heard Dean say it.

And Dean, bless his five-and-a-half—and you did not forget the half—year-old heart, had been saying it a lot, lately, trying to get Sammy to say it back. Sammy would just laugh, sometimes so hard that John was afraid he was going to hyperventilate, choke, or throw up. So many times, John had been tempted to put an end to the lesson; but then he'd hear Dean laugh—something the boy so rarely did—and he just couldn't do it.

Dean rarely let the game go too far. He was always so careful of Sammy, and he always seemed to know when enough was enough, stopping long before anything could get to the point where Sammy might get hurt, scared, or unhappy.

John set Sammy down in the wooden high chair, and Dean immediately climbed into the booth beside him and put both arms high in the air.

"Sammy! Hands up!"

Feet kicking happily, Sammy copied him exactly, throwing both hands up in the air and keeping them there as long as Dean did. It was yet another little game Dean had taught him, so they wouldn't accidentally clip his fingers in his safety belt.

John shook his head in amazement, as he always did when Dean came up with clever ways to get Sammy to do such simple things—things John never would have thought to try. He often wondered if maybe the hospital had handed the operating instructions they liked to claim didn't come with babies when they were born to Dean and bribed him not to tell anyone.

"Good boy, Sammy," Dean cooed excitedly. He dropped his hands and Sammy's hands came down with them, smacking noisily at the table top. "Did'ja see, Daddy?"

John ruffled Dean's hair. "I sure did, Dean. That was a really great trick you taught him."

"_Daddydeedaddydeedaddydee_!" Sammy sang happily, his hands and feet banging against the table in alternating rhythm.

"All right, Tiger," John laughed, sliding into the booth across from Dean. "It's coming."

He opened the Happy Meal and laid out the burger and fries inside onto a napkin, then slid it in front of Dean careful to keep it out of Sammy's reach. He then unwrapped another burger, and cut off small pieces to set in front of Sammy.

The burger held little interest to him. The small pieces of French fries that soon followed, however, were a different story. His little hands grabbed up the pieces as fast as John put them down and crammed them into his mouth.

John picked up a piece of burger and held it out for Sammy to take. Sammy looked at it for a second then took it from John's hand. It looked like he was actually going to eat it—much to John's surprise—but then a look of mischief flashed across his chubby face and Sammy held it out to Dean.

Nearby, he heard laugher, and he looked over at the next table. An old woman sat alone nursing a cup of tea. The trash from her finished meal was neatly piled on her tray.

She caught John's eye and smiled sweetly. "I'm sorry," she said to him, and her smile grew. "But, he's a little Dickens, isn't he?"

It was an old saying, one of which John had never fully understood the meaning. "If by that, you mean that he's going to keep me on my toes, I think you might be right," he answered with a smile.

He put a few more pieces of French fry down in front of Sammy who snatched them up and stuffed them into his mouth.

"Well, he sure...loves his...French fries, doesn't he?" She slowly pushed herself to her feet as she spoke, the effort it took betrayed by the slight catch in her voice.

John winced inwardly as he watched her carry her tray to the nearby trash bucket. Manners said to offer her his assistance, but not if it meant leaving his kids out of his immediate reach.

She emptied her tray and set it on the pile of other empty trays on top of the trash bucket, then turned back to face John. Clearly, she was enjoying their conversation, and was in no hurry to see it ended.

"Yeah," he answered. "Not so much of the burger, though."

As if knowing he was the subject of their conversation, Sammy turned in his seat to look at the old woman.

"Hello there," she said, giving him a small wave and a warm smile.

He seemed to think about it for a second, and then his whole face light up in a big smile. He reached out his hand to her, offering her the same small piece of burger he'd tried, unsuccessfully, to pawn off on Dean.

John rolled his eyes and shook his head. "You eat it," he said, with barely contained humor. The woman was laughing outright, which just gave Sammy an audience.

"Like this, Sammy," Dean said, then. Sammy's head snapped around to his brother. "Watch." Dean took a piece of Sammy's burger and made a great show of popping it in his mouth and chewing it up. "Now, you do it."

Sammy picked up another piece with his right hand—the first momentarily forgotten in his left—and slowly brought it to his mouth. His eyes never left Dean's; and when Dean opened his mouth wide, Sammy copied him, opening his little mouth wide in front of the piece of food.

John felt himself holding his breath.

Then let it out in a huff when Sammy's hand shot out towards Dean, the uneaten piece of burger grasped in his fingers.

The old woman laughed again, and John felt himself unable to _not_ join her. "Dickens, you said?"

Drawn to his daddy's voice, Sammy reached out his left hand and dropped the squished piece of burger onto the table next John's tray.

"Thanks," he said drily.

"Oh, he is a little piece of angel food cake," the old woman cooed, and Sammy gave her another of his megawatt smiles. "Why, I could just eat you up with a spoon. Yes, I could."

Sam thought this was pretty funny and a little laugh bubbled out of him. Dean wasn't so pleased, though.

"No, you can't," he said firmly, dropping his half-eaten burger onto his napkin. "I won't let you!"

"Oh, my heavens," she said, her hand going to her chest in surprise.

John was pretty shocked, himself, at the outburst. "I'm sorry," he told her, though he really wasn't. Not even a little.

The woman wasn't upset, though. She gave Dean a very serious nod. "Why, I should certainly hope not. Eating adorable children is generally frowned upon in civilized society, after all."

Dean seemed to consider that for a bit, and then looked at John for some sort of guidance. John assessed the old woman—she hadn't made any move towards either child, and although the comment had been a bit odd, there had been nothing in her demeanor that had seemed even remotely threatening.

"Yes, it is," he agreed, giving Dean a nod to let him know everything was okay. He looked up at the old woman and said, "He's very protective of his little brother."

She smiled warmly. Looking directly at Dean, she said very seriously, "That makes you a very good big brother."

She turned that grandmotherly smile on John and said, "You have a beautiful family. Enjoy the rest of your lunch."

She waved goodbye to the boys, and if she was hurt that Dean didn't wave back, John couldn't tell and he really didn't care. He turned back to Dean and gave him a smile.

"You're the best big brother, Sport," he said.

Dean smiled. "The best ever, right, Sammy," he said, leaning close and making a funny face at his baby brother.

Sammy pressed the piece of burger against Dean's mouth, and Dean opened his mouth and took it from his fingers.

"Yum, yum," he said as he chewed, and Sammy shrieked in delight.

"So much for getting him to eat that, now," John said to himself.


End file.
